


Out There, Though-

by ecotone



Category: Destiny (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, throne world shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 20:46:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12307437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ecotone/pseuds/ecotone
Summary: The Dreadnaught is mostly empty. The throne worlds are not.





	Out There, Though-

After the Tower falls, Osiris comes searching for him. 

Well, he almost does- he does not leave Mercury in order to plunder the quiet Dreadnaught, to carve a path through encrusted barnacles and dead worms. The Thrall here are hungry, now, with a dead King and without even the barest trace of Light to search out and consume. When Osiris’ cautious probes burn molecules in the air they screech, drag grasping claws at the air that seems light and hot and bright. The ones that connect bone to Light turn to ash: whether this is a warning or a gift, he doesn’t know. 

Toland _knows_ of the unrest stirring underneath the Sea of Screams, the courtly politics that are as interesting as the Reef’s games and even more deadly. Savathûn’s warships draw closer, her coven singing death and trickery and pain. He knows of the cold Void ebbing from a moon closer to him than Luna- oh, Luna, he should go visit that graveyard- flooding through her lines of tribute like the Ravens did millennia ago. But the Tower is too busy collapsing to notice, and so the job of arousing them from their slumber falls, once again, to- 

To who? Eris is gone, and her silence at his messages has morphed from acknowledgment to what feels like neglect. He can feel his annoyance in his temples, but his middle eye burns bright with curiosity turning slowly to fear. Clever Savathûn lurks in the shadows, they both know, and maybe she has turned her scrying eyes on her dead brother’s throne long enough to see what undead presence still hangs above it. Better Toland be devoured than Eris: the Bane is still alive and angry and ready to kill, and she is better suited to lead the war against the Hive once again. 

And so it is his job, again, to dive into the cold ocean of the Overworld and pick up the bones from the seafloor, send them back to the City with helpful runes carved in between the joints. They have no one to interpret his rambling for them, but one of the constellation-bright Lights will probably pick up quickly enough. If not, then the Logic will deliver its cold promise, and Toland’s mortal concern might finally stop gnawing at his brain. 

Osiris kicks him awake from his philosophizing, ever Praxic, ever Titan-impatient. Toland is sitting bent-legged on the great stone dais of the Court of Oryx, green fire washing over him, and even here he cannot quite find silence. In the distance Thrall skitter out of their caves to hover on the edge of their balconies, shrieking and whining. The message, delivered in the heart of a tiny sun:

Sa. Va. Thun. You know this. 

The sun winks out, like a supernova or one of the worlds that great ship hanging over Nessus has eaten whole. He scowls; messages like this still remind him of the countless arguments carried out in the Warlock halls, the tattered messages pinned to the bounty board in lieu of any real attempt at discussion. 

(It has been two hundred years, and Osiris continues to be correct about thanatonautics.)

The void is cold enough to make his knuckles ache; here it is Lightless, nothing but pure energy and the cold between this star and the next. He could Sunsing, out here, if he concentrated hard enough and didn’t mind drawing the attention of every Hive still in Oryx’s throne. This is safer, though, and it makes him less nostalgic. 

His response is little more than an affirmative, because everything he knows about Savathûn he has the suspicion that Osiris knows, too, and until he has figured out the rules of the game they are playing he doesn’t intend to try and show off. They are both the pinnacle of knowledge of one’s enemies, or obsession, or madness. Yor’s Dark-stained legacy is a shadow compared to his eclipse. 

He waits. Another day passes, slow and languid and full of death. The Thrall fight each other and eat the corpses’ worms, the Acolytes turn on their own small battalions, rationing and feasting in equal measure. There are few Knights left, now. The Wizards were clever enough to abandon this dead place months ago. Toland leaves the Court and moves to the Founts, watches the chains swing and clink together even in the still air. The air is dry and dusty, and above him the walls stretch up for what looks like forever, the ceiling nothing but white light. 

The sparks return, and when they do he gathers them up in his fist, smothers them. He enjoys having an entire throne-ship to himself, even if he is not wearing the crown, even if he knows the Queen may soon come and depose of the empty kingdom’s jester. Anything to delay that future. The reply, orange-yellow, worms its way out of his closed hand:

Quria. It is not Her but it is just as dangerous. 

And then the world is dim again. Idly, he wishes for an actual conversation, something more than two Warlocks- not even that, anymore- exchanging information in bitten-off sentences. Perhaps he should ask how Saint-14 is doing, if the Cult is still so strong and secretive and bright. 

The door to the prison where Alak-Hul once slumbered creaks, and Toland watches it carefully even though he knows nothing is there to open it. He can feel someone laughing at him, in the back of his mind where he’d shoved away the rest of his Light to hide or maybe die or maybe be safe. It sounds like Eriana-3, like the one night they were all in the library at three in the morning, when Sai walked up behind him too quietly and made him swear loud enough to wake the entire eastern wing. 

He stands, his boots sinking into the stone under him, debates the merits of finding some corner in the void between thrones and hiding there, or moving into the shadows of the Tower and giving warning of the days to come with his three eyes glowing green in the black. He wonders what would happen if he approached Savathûn’s throne, bowed his head and welcomed her to their corner of the universe and joined her Coven, if he attempted to out-trick the goddess of cunning and treachery and death. 

The Books are still crowding his brain so he sends the appropriate verses along with his message. He warns of the Tablets, how he can feel them being used, how it feels like someone grasping his stomach and squeezing, like someone taking the air from his lungs. How Quria is no longer Vex but how Mercury is no less endangered. How the Taken King is dead but the vacancy is filled. 

Alongside the tired prophecy and joyous fear, a question: and how is your Titan? I hope he’s found his true calling smashing brass together. 

The cold reaches up to his elbows and when he puts his arms down his joints snap. The message goes where it is supposed to, to Mercury or Io or the Vex network itself. Toland wonders what a cult would look like here, buried into the side of Akka’s bone-ship, more twice-dead Guardians prowling the great expanses of screaming void. Quiet conversations filling dark caverns, stone platforms filled again with bodies and knives and Dark-Light-Death. Maybe he would be less lonely.

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone: has very nice characterizations of Toland  
> Me: wizard??? grumpy??/? 
> 
> Seriously, though, hope this was enjoyable. Thanks for reading, comments are appreciated, etc. <3


End file.
